More Than a Sandwich
by Cheeky Slytherin Lass
Summary: When his cousin loses his job, Piers does the only thing he can to makes things better.


_Careers Advice, task 1: Write about preparing a meal or drink for someone._

 _Word Count: 1195_

* * *

Piers doesn't have to ask when he sees Max come home early from work. This is a scene the eleven-year-old knows all too well. For one reason or another–always Piers' fault, but his cousin will never say that–Max will lose his job. He'll put on a brave face, but Piers knows better.

"Don't worry about me, kid," Max says affectionately as he ruffles Piers' dark hair. "I hated that job anyway."

And maybe that's true, but Piers knows it doesn't matter. That job is the only thing that's kept food on the table.

His cousin hesitates, pushing his hand through his dark hair and staring down at the newspaper on the kitchen table. It's another part of the routine, having to search through the classified ads in hopes of finding something he's qualified for.

"I'm sorry," Piers says.

Max only smiles at him before grabbing the newspaper. Without another word, he heads to his room. Piers stares after him for several moments, blinking back tears.

He knows that he is free to cry in this house. Max is good to him and won't tell him to man up like his father used to, nor will he tease Piers for being weak like Dudley and the others might. Still, he hates it. He's meant to be strong, and he hates feeling so damn useless.

It's all his fault. If he had to guess, he'd assume Max got stuck in traffic after picking Piers up from school before his shift at the little restaurant on the other side of town. Ordinarily it wouldn't be a big deal, but Max has had to miss work and show up late because of Piers' doctor appointments, school meetings, and that one time Piers got arrested after he graffitied a park bench.

He furiously wipes away his tears. Sitting around, feeling sorry for himself won't help Max.

Piers' stomach growls. He's tempted to knock on his cousin's door and ask Max to fix something to eat, but he resists. Over the past few years, he's done nothing but get in Max's way and ruin everything. The least he can do is leave Max alone.

His stomach growls again, and he whines. Max would always bring Piers some food from the restaurant. Piers could just snack throughout the day, knowing he would have some fancy meal before the night was over.

With a sigh, he forces the thought from his head and makes his way to the kitchen. Everything looks so foreign, and his heartbeat quickens. Does he even know how to cook? He thinks he might have watched his mum cook breakfast once, but he can't quite remember.

He walks uncertainly around the kitchen. Though he knows what pots and pans are, he doesn't know how to actually use them.

"Idiot," he mutters, digging his nails roughly into his palms. "Why do you have to be so useless?"

It's a bad habit; he knows it, but he doesn't care. The slight pain brings him a strange sense of relief, of familiarity. His parents had always been so quick to insult him, to hate him. Picking it up himself had come so naturally.

He continues, searching through the fridge and cabinet until he finds a nearly-full jar of peanut butter. The shelf above it has half a loaf of bread. It's hardened slightly, but it's still good. Piers grabs both and takes them to the table.

At least he isn't completely useless. Piers prepares a peanut butter sandwich, feeling quite pleased with himself. He lifts it to his mouth but stops when guilt twists his stomach into knots. With a heavy sigh, he sets the sandwich down again.

He isn't the only one who needs to be taken care of. Max is in his room, going through hell, and it's all Piers' fault. Fixing himself a sandwich feels selfish now.

Piers grabs another plate before beginning the process again.

…

Balancing the plates and cups of milk isn't easy, but Piers manages somehow. His hands are too full to knock, so he kicks out his long leg, banging his shoe sharply against the door. A moment later, Max opens it. His bright eyes widen when he sees Piers.

"What are you doing?" Max asks, thin lips tugging into a smile.

Piers's cheeks flush with warmth. He clears his throat and looks down at the carpet. "I… I made you dinner," he says.

It seems so silly now. Who the hell makes peanut butter sandwiches and calls them a meal? Even when he tries to be helpful, Piers still manages to make a mess of things.

Instead of laughing at him, Max takes a plate and cup. "And you fixed me a glass of milk? How awesome!"

Piers doesn't feel awesome, but he manages a small smile as he makes his way to Max's desk. It's a tight fit for them both to sit there, and the clutter makes it difficult for Piers to get comfortable.

"Any luck?" Piers asks, nodding toward the newspaper.

He can see some of the ads have been circled with a red marker, but even more have been crossed out. He doesn't know if it's safe to hope yet.

Max takes a bite of his sandwich, chewing in silence. He washes it down with a bit of milk. "Couple of interviews lined up," he answers, shrugging. "Nothing special."

Piers pinches the crust of his sandwich, pulling at it. "I'm sorry you lost your job because of me," he says quietly.

"Why do you think it's because of you?"

Piers doesn't answer at first. He continues quietly picking at the crust, searching for the words.

It's always his fault. Even if Max refuses to admit it, even if he keeps making excuses that keep the blame away from Piers, he knows the truth. Max would have had a happy life if Piers hadn't been forced on him.

"I just know," Piers mutters, scrubbing a hand over his neck.

Max sets his sandwich aside and reaches out, gently squeezing Piers' hands. "Listen to me, okay? Nothing is your fault," he says. "My boss was an asshole. Anyone else would have understood, but you know how Chuck is."

Piers wrinkles his nose. He's only met Max's old boss once, and he isn't in any hurry to meet him again. The man had been a nightmare. Night after night, Max would come home looking visibly shaken.

"We're going to be okay," Max assures him before biting into his sandwich again. "I have a gourmet chef to take care of me."

Piers grins. "It's just a sandwich," he says, rolling his eyes, though he can't help but to feel proud. "Nothing special."

"Plenty special," his cousin assures him.

Piers nods, though he doesn't quite believe it. He hasn't done anything spectacular. Max had sacrificed so much just to take Piers in. How could making a simple sandwich measure up to all the amazing things Max has done?

But Max smiles, and it's enough to make Piers melt. Though the world still feels like it's going to fall apart at any minute, Max is happy, and Piers thinks that maybe they'll get through this.


End file.
